


The Lies We Tell

by shealynn88



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-A Scandal in Belgravia, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-01
Updated: 2013-09-01
Packaged: 2017-12-25 07:36:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/950435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shealynn88/pseuds/shealynn88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One truth leads to another...</p>
<p>
  <i>“What makes you think you can lie to me?”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lies We Tell

“I hate lying to you, Sherlock, and--”

“What makes you think you can lie to me?”

John looked up, biting down on a grimace. Now he'd done it. 

“Oh,” Sherlock said, still distracted by the letter he was reading. “You mean her.”

There was the barest of inflections in his voice that made it clear who he was talking about. 

Or maybe it was just the guilt John had been carrying around for the past month. “Her?” John asked carefully.

Sherlock looked up, sneering slightly. “Oh, don't play dumb with me, John; it makes you appear stupider than you already are. _Her._ The only time you and Mycroft ever agreed on anything, and believe me when I say, John, that it was the wrong thing.”

“Wait,” As usual, John felt like he was doing mental sprints to keep up. “You knew?”

“About Karachi? Of course I knew. What on earth do you take me for?”

John didn't bother answering. “And...you're okay with...with what happened?”

Sherlock was still looking at the letter. “Would it matter if I wasn't? It happened. And then you and Mycroft lied about it in some sort of childish conspiracy.”

John's mouth gaped, and he tried to say something, but Sherlock waved him off as if he were an irritating insect. “Oh, I know what you'll say – that it was for my own good, that you were worried. Some such nonsense.”

John was quiet. He was used to Sherlock. The way he pushed rudely into your most private thoughts. He'd more or less learned not to take it personally. But this...this hurt just a little bit. Because John had been thinking, more or less constantly, about something Irene had said, many months back, and he wondered how much truth there was to it. And he knew that he had been worried, and he had lied for Sherlock's own good...even if it had done neither of them any good at all.

“Why nonsense,” he asked quietly.

Sherlock looked up at him again, and John felt suddenly small and frozen with something like fear.

“Because my brother only worries about me when there's something in it for him. And because you know better than anyone that I don't work that way. I don't _feel_ like that.”

John tested the validity of the statement as it rolled off his tongue. “I know that,” he repeated. No, he decided, he knew nothing of the sort.

“Of course you do. You live here, don't you?”

“I do. Live here. Yes.” He took a deep breath. Paused. Then spoke, carefully. Thinking that perhaps Sherlock would listen, knowing that he probably wouldn't. “I watched you mourn for her when you thought she was dead. You were...you were different and distant, and...hurt. I _know_ that she affected you. So, yes. I was worried, and actually, I _do_ think you feel 'like that,' Sherlock.”

Sherlock's mouth turned down in a near-pout. “I'm perfectly in touch with my feelings, John, and I'm telling you I'm fine. Don't get your hangups confused with mine. Now, if you'll kindly shut up so I can finish this letter—”

John leaned forward, Sherlock's usual dismissal finally getting to him. “I'm sorry, my...my 'hangups'?”

“Yes, yes.” Sherlock waved at him again. “Your issues with these...romantic hangups you're dealing with. I honestly don't care, John, I just want to be left alone for the next three hours so I can think about this.” he waved the letter vaguely and then turned away.

John was cold, suddenly, and then warm. And then cold again. _I'm not gay_ , he'd told Irene. _And I am_ , she'd said knowingly. _And look at us both..._

Yes indeed. Look at them. And look at Sherlock, playing them both like fools.

“So you know,” John said flatly, glancing away as he tried to hide his embarrassment. Surely there was something he could say to make this better. For the life of him, he couldn't think of anything. 

It was horrifying. Sherlock _knew_.

A long moment later, Sherlock rolled his eyes up to look at John over the top of the paper, obviously irritated. “You're still here. I thought we were done.”

John ripped the letter from Sherlock's hand and tossed it onto the coffee table. “Well, we're not! This – how could you know? _I_ didn't know! Hell, I _don't_ know! And if I can't _lie_ to you then tell me – tell me what this is, Sherlock. Because I don't know. I don't understand it.”

Sherlock squinted at him. “How on earth should I know? You know I don't concern myself with this sort of thing. But I can't really ignore it when you parade it about. All I'm saying, John, is that it gets tiresome.”

John thought for a moment he might actually kill the man. “Parade it about?”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock said impatiently. “Staying up all night in your room, pacing. You obviously can't sleep, your appetite has suffered, and you're distracted. Your dating has become an increasingly frantic revolving door of women that even you can't keep straight. You've started biting your nails. A new habit, and frankly, an annoying one. Obviously you're conflicted--”

“How long?”

“What?”

He snapped the words off slowly. Carefully. As if somehow it would make it perfectly clear to Sherlock what he wanted, _needed_ to know. “How long have you known?”

“Known what, John?”

As if he'd forgotten in the two seconds it had taken John to ask the question. John swallowed, sick and suddenly needing to be somewhere else. If Sherlock was going to be cavalier about this... _this_! Well, he couldn't do it. He just couldn't. “I'm not playing this game with you Sherlock, I'm not just going to...to _say_ it so you can pick it apart. Pick...pick _me_ apart. You should have said something.”

“Said what, exactly?” Sherlock's voice dripped boredom. Superiority. Everything John had known he'd hear if Sherlock ever knew. And he always had. Of course he had. He was Sherlock.

John closed his eyes and pressed his lips together, taking a moment to calm himself. “You should have told me you knew,” he finally managed, his voice deathly quiet. He grabbed his jacket and left, as quickly as he could without missing a stair and breaking his neck.


End file.
